Читать книгу Ye Lyttle Salem Maide. A Story of Witchcraft онлайн

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Abigail and Deliverance, to all outward appearance absorbed in each other’s society, were none the less listening with ears wide open to whatever was said. Near them sat young wife Tucker that her baby might share the warmth of the fire. It lay on her lap, its little red hands curled up, the lashes of its closed eyes sweeping its cheeks. A typical Puritan baby was this, duly baptized and given to God. A wadded hood of gray silk was worn closely on its head, its gown, short-sleeved and low-necked, was of coarse linen bleached in the sun and smelling sweetly of lavender. The young wife tilted it gently on her knees, crooning psalms if it appeared to be waking, the while her ever busy hands were knitting above it. Once she paused to touch the round cheek fondly with her finger.

“Ye were most fortunate, Dame Tucker,” said one of the gossips, observing the tender motion, “to get him back again.”

“Ay,” answered the young wife, “the Lord was merciful to the goodman and myself. Ne’er shall I cease to have remembrance o’ that wicked morn. I waked early and saw a woman standing by the cradle. ‘In God’s name, what come you for?’ I cried, and thereat she vanished. I rose; O woeful sight these eyes beheld! The witches had taken away my babe and put in its stead a changeling.” The young wife shuddered, and dropped her knitting to clasp her baby to her breast. “Long had I been feared o’ such an evil and ne’er oped my eyes at morn save with fear lest the dread come true. Ye ken, gossips, a witch likes best a first bairn. There the changeling lay in my baby’s crib, a puny, fretful, crying wean, purple o’ lips and white o’ cheeks. Quick the goodman went out and got me five eggs from the black hen, and we burnt the shells and fried the yolks, and with a jar o’ honey (for a witch has a sweet tooth) put the relishes where she might find them and be pacified. She took them not. All that day and the next I wept sorely. Yet with rich milk I fed the fretting wean, feeling pity for it in my heart though it was against me to hush it to sleep in my arms. The night o’ the second day the goodman slept heavily, for he was sore o’ heart an’ weary. But the changeling would not hush its wailing, so I rose and rocked it until worn out by much grief I fell asleep, my head resting on the hood o’ the crib. When I oped my eyes in the darkness the crying was like that o’ my own babe. I hushed my breath to listen.